The beauty of the night touched him, and mixed these feelings with mournfulness.

He quite forgot the bellow and clatter behind.

The beauty of the night, and heaven knows what treacherous hope in the depths of his soul, coloured existence warmly.
He was roused from his reverie by an altercation unmistakeably fierce.
Raikes had been touched on a tender point.

In reply to a bantering remark of his, Laxley had hummed over bits of his oration, amid the chuckles of his comrades.

Unfortunately at a loss for a biting retort, Raikes was reduced to that plain confession of a lack of wit; he offered combat.
'I 'll tell you what,' said Laxley, 'I never soil my hands with a blackguard; and a fellow who tries to make fun of Scripture, in my opinion is one.